


Campfire Tales

by brooksey



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dragon Age Kink Meme, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-28 15:09:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 7,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20427965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brooksey/pseuds/brooksey
Summary: A collection of scenes around the campfire between the Inquisitor and her companions.This work is a fill for this DA Kinkmeme prompt:"I love DAI to death, but I feel like it was severely lacking in cozy campfire conversations. Everything felt so much more intimate in DAO when you were just chatting around the campfire with your companions at night. And it would've made sense to include that in DAI considering how much traveling the Inquisitor does!""So, I want you to give me those cozy campfire conversations because there's no way Quizzy did all that walking without any talking in between. I want touching moments between friends, I want steamy moments between lovers, I want cathartic conversations after a long day of saving the world. I want to see the little bits in between the big battles, ya know? Whatever that might be. Even if it's just some lighthearted fun around the campfire with a bottle of booze and a deck of cards. I don't care. It can be fluffy, smutty, angsty—I want it ALL. Short, long. Serious or not so serious. ANYTHING you can think of."





	1. Cole

**Author's Note:**

> I do have these in a specific order, but they're all written as standalone scenes, so they'll still make sense if read out of order. Also, I am taking plenty of liberties in this work with who you might find at a campsite, along with how many people might be there at the same time. Consider yourself warned! 
> 
> All kinds of credit to Kris on this work, and especially on Varric, Vivienne, and Dorian.

Waves of dry heat wash over her this close to the campfire; while her freckled face and hands roast, her back is wreathed in cold. Caitriona's mind has been too agitated for sleep, so she volunteered to take the first watch tonight. One of the many perks of the job is lying on a thin bedroll next to the fire instead of in a tent. At least here, she won't be keeping anyone else awake with her tossing and turning.

The heat on her skin has become unbearable, so she flips over and her body begins to approach a sort of equilibrium. It won't last — soon her back will be too warm, her face too cold — but it's pleasant enough for now. She closes her eyes and can almost feel wisps of steam wafting off her face as the heat seeps into the night air.

Facing this direction she can see all the tents, pitched in a half-ring around the fire. As harmless as that sight should be, it just causes a rush of fear in her veins. She doesn't see tents, she sees the people inside them who've been dragged out here: besides her companions, there are at least a dozen other people who have come on the trek to help provide support, ferry supplies, carry messages. All the people who've been put in danger by her.

No— these people believe in her. They have absolute faith in her, in things she struggles to believe in herself. They have put _themselves_ in danger, and they've done it _for_ her. Somehow, that's even worse.

Eventually the cold becomes too much, and she turns over to start the process again. This time, though, instead of looking at the fire she finds herself looking at an apple. Rosy pink fading to creamy yellow around the stem, she recognizes the variety as one of the kinds grown in her family's orchards back in Ostwick. She stares for a moment, watching ripples of orange light shining off its smooth skin, before reaching for the apple and at the same time speaking in a low voice.

"Cole?"

"You always thought they looked like sunrise. They were your favorite."

A hint of a smile touches her face as she lies on her back, fingers skimming over the surface of the fruit. "Yes. I loved these. Thank you."

Cole is quiet for a time, and she stays silent as well, lost in her thoughts. The longing that threatens to overtake her, thinking of her life before becoming the Herald of Andraste, is quickly crushed beneath the boot heel of duty, the responsibility she was given by the refugees from Haven as they cheered and sang.

"Always seen, and never seen," Cole says softly. "The air, the sun, the stone at the same time must have it so."

She squeezes her eyes shut as though doing so will somehow hide her from Cole's words, from her own fears, from everything. Raising the apple to rest lightly on her lips, she draws a shaky breath and can just barely smell the sweet scent of the orchard she remembers. 

"He sees," Cole whispers. "He would shatter the stone and bathe in the sun. But he can't, not until he's no longer himself."

Frowning slightly, she hesitates, waiting for Cole to go on, but he doesn't. It isn't until much later, after Solas has relieved her and she's finally fallen into a restless sleep in her tent that his voice drifts through the air, soft as the sigh of the wind outside.

_"He sees."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I wondered this myself, a quick note about my Inquisitor. For anyone wondering how to pronounce her name, as I understand it, it is pronounced either roughly as the English "Catrina", or with an extra syllable: "ka-TREE-uh-na". (I had to look that up. :D) She came out looking kind of Irish to me, so she got an Irish name. :)


	2. Dorian

"Do you think he's all right?"

Iron Bull gives her a skeptical look. "Would _you_ be all right after that?"

Caitriona winces. If she'd had the sort of confrontation Dorian has just had with his father? No, she wouldn't be. They both look toward the tiny campsite Dorian is setting up alone about a dozen yards away from the rest of them. Iron Bull tips his chin forward: _go._

She picks her way slowly over the uneven ground, careful to avoid any tree roots waiting to trip her in the darkness. By the time she reaches Dorian, he has finished setting up his tent and has a healthy fire going. She sits down next to him as he pokes at the fire with a stick. For a while, they just sit together in silence.

"I suppose I must thank you, Inquisitor," Dorian starts. Caitriona looks sideways at him, but his face is giving nothing away. "For standing behind me today. It's a strange notion, having someone on my side when it comes to my father."

"Of course I'm on your side," she answers. "We all are; I hope you know that." He shrugs absently, and she presses on: "I can't imagine how difficult it must have been, and I'm sorry you had to go through it. But since you have, I hope that it allows you to move forward and be happy in the life you've chosen."

Dorian scoffs, watching the embers float up from the fire and disappear into the infinite black of the sky above. "I believed happiness was possible once; I know better now."

Beneath the cynicism, his voice is bruised, tinged with an old, deep hurt. "Why do you say that?" she asks quietly.

He doesn't respond, just resumes prodding at the fire with the stick he's found, despite the fact that it needs no tending with his magic keeping it high and hot. Perhaps she's gone too far, asked about something too personal. She has just drawn breath to apologize to him when he finally answers.

"It was years ago. There was a man. Rilienus." He says the name almost wistfully despite the obvious pain it causes him. "With him, I knew what it meant to be truly happy. It was like nothing I've ever felt before, or since. Like stepping into the warmth of the sun after years spent in darkness. I was a better man then, not for him but _because_ of him. It was..." Dorian sighs. "I simply don't have the words to properly explain how it felt."

His lips turn up a bit at the corners, but he looks profoundly sad. "I kept telling him that he'd feel differently about me once he saw my other sides. Angry with my father, or drowning my sorrows at the bottom of a bottle. But he always insisted that it wouldn't matter, that nothing could change how he felt about me."

"It sounds like he really loved you."

"Yes." Then, with a frown, he corrects himself. "Well, no. Perhaps not. I certainly _felt_ loved, more than I ever had in my life. But it was always merely implied, never declared, so perhaps he truly didn't. There was one day... I came so close to asking him whether he loved me." A shower of embers is released from the fire after a particularly vicious jab of the stick; they glow jewel-bright as they spin high into the air before fading out. "I suppose it's for the best I never did."

"I'd already refused my orders to marry, but this _is_ Tevinter we're talking about, so naturally he was also betrothed to some noble's daughter. The moment arrived where he had to choose between the happiness we had, and duty to his family line." Dorian's face twists into a bitter smile. "Needless to say, he did not choose me."

Her heart breaks for him just a little. “I’m sorry. That must have been awful; I can’t imagine. But surely you could be that happy again—"

"No, my dear Inquisitor," he cuts her off, "you see, I don't believe I _could_, because I no longer believe such a thing exists. And perhaps it never really existed in the first place. Happiness like that is not meant for people like me."

"People like you?" She arches an eyebrow at him. "Talented mages with a drive to do good and an exquisite fashion sense?"

He smiles ruefully at that. "And who are so shameful that their own family turns to blood magic to make them something they're not. There aren't many who can say they've inspired that level of disappointment in those they love, you know. We're quite the exclusive club."

Dorian won't meet her eyes, but she responds anyway, leaning over to rest a hand on his shoulder. "I can't make you see what I see, Dorian. But I hope you'll believe me when I say that _I_ see a man who has already made the world better simply by being who he is. And that I'm certain there is happiness in your future, whatever it may look like."

With one last stab, he drives the stick deep into the fire. Eyes on the flames now licking up the sides, charring the bark before peeling it away and consuming it, he speaks softly in reply. "Perhaps so, Inquisitor. I do hope you're right." 

She brings a hand to her chest and puts on a tone of mock offense. "You doubt me?"

"Someone has to," he tells her, and finally a glimmer of the Dorian she knows shines through. "I apologize for my melancholy; my father has a unique gift for bringing out the worst in me. And for stirring my desire to drink wine. Shall we?" He's already rummaging through one of his packs, then pulls out a tall, slender bottle made of cobalt blue glass.

He produces two goblets as well, and fills them both, handing one to Caitriona. Then he taps the rim of his goblet lightly against hers in a toast before drinking. "Thank you, Inquisitor, for— well, just thank you."


	3. Blackwall

"Andraste's flaming _arse!"_

Startled, Caitriona turns to look for the source of the curse. There she sees Blackwall, stumbling vaguely in her direction and flailing his arms wildly about his head. He's holding his helmet in one hand, and seems to be trying to use it to fend off whatever demons have set upon him, but without much success.

"By the Maker's holy living... _arrgh!"_ With a final growl, he swings his arm down and plunges the helmet into a bucket of water someone has collected from the nearby stream. 

"Er... Blackwall?" she asks tentatively, "Is something wrong?"

He stomps over to sit with her at the fire, using one fist to scour out the inside of his helmet before dumping the water out and setting it on the ground behind him to dry. Blackwall is not the most jovial of men under any circumstances, but it is obvious that at the moment he is supremely irritated.

His mustache twitches in annoyance. "I've had a helmet full of bees again, my lady Inquisitor."

"A helmet full of bees?" It's a struggle to keep a straight face, but Maker only knows how, she manages it. "And... er... _again?"_

"Yes," he says flatly. He suddenly dodges to the side, swatting a hand to rid himself of one last bee. "Again."

"So... this isn't the first time you've found your helmet full of bees?"

"It is the _fifth_ time, my lady." 

From out of the leafy brush behind Blackwall, a pale, slender arm emerges. The hand attached to the arm is holding a jar of raspberry jam with a spoon sticking out of it. Almost before she realizes what's happening, several scoops of jam have been spread around the inside of Blackwall's helmet. The arm, the hand, and the jam disappear back into the foliage in a blink. 

Caitriona looks down at the ground, hoping that Blackwall thinks she is taking a moment to consider rather than what she's actually doing, which is taking a moment to bite her lip and choke down her laughter. "Well, that certainly is an inconvenience," she says carefully when she's finally able to look back up. "Perhaps we ought to send a group out from Skyhold and ask them to, er... to clear out beehives... in the area?" 

Blackwall looks at her doubtfully, and of course she knows the suggestion is ridiculous, but what else is there to say? She certainly can't respond with _I'll have to thank Sera; I haven't had a laugh this good in ages._

"Thank you, my lady, but I don't think that will be necessary. I'll just have to keep a better eye on my things from now on." He reaches backwards to grab his helmet, tucks it next to his hip, and gives her a half-bow in farewell. He walks back toward his tent, grumbling under his breath, and Caitriona could swear that she hears a nearby bush snickering as he passes.


	4. Sera

_"No,_ Bull, I'm not doing it," Cullen snaps.

"Come on, Curly, join us, we need at least one more. I could use the coin, and you could use a few drinks," Varric teases him.

"No," Cullen says again, "and before you even ask, my men are not wagering on drinks either." The three recruits Cullen has brought on this trek look at each other, and Caitriona can see hints of disappointment on all their faces.

Iron Bull tosses a stone into the flames, and when it hits sparks are thrown right into the face of Sera, who has just strolled up out of the woods to sit with everyone else around the roaring fire. "Crap," he swears, "sorry about that, Sera. Hey, how about you, you want in on this? Five coppers gets you in, whoever downs the most drinks wins the pot."

"Yeah, all right," Sera says cheerfully, and Iron Bull responds with a gesture of victory. Across the enormous firepit, Cullen has finished his reports and stowed them, finally sitting down for a bowl of stew amongst his men. He shoves a spoonful into his mouth irritably, still annoyed at being harangued. 

Sera tosses her five coppers into the cup and collects her first drink. "I won this last time, didn't I, so I'll have another go at it."

Iron Bull scoffs out loud. Varric snorts into his bowl and Caitriona laughs, remembering. "When we played Wicked Grace? Sera, Iron Bull drank you under the table that night," Caitriona reminds her, "literally."

"That's what I'm sayin', that I won. Best seat in the house, innit?"

Caitriona exchanges a glance with Varric, and sees her own confusion mirrored there. Cullen's men are all looking at each other, shrugging in turn. Only Iron Bull seems to understand, his dawning comprehension mingling with sheer delight.

And Cullen, oddly enough — he too seems to have some idea what Sera is saying. His spoon has frozen halfway to his mouth and his cheeks are beginning to flush pink.

Well, _someone_ has to ask, and it may as well be her. "Er, Sera. What do you mean?"

Sera wears a wicked smile. "When Commander Fancypants lost his fancy pants, who do you think got an eyeful of his bits and pieces?"

Everything goes still as the group remembers the ending to Cullen's legendary loss at Wicked Grace. Even the new young men seem to have heard what happened through Skyhold's grapevine. Cullen's eyes are now closed and his face is blazing red. He begins pinching the bridge of his nose when Varric's escaped guffaw sets everyone off. Iron Bull chuckles openly alongside Sera's giggles, and the recruits are hiding their snickering quite poorly. 

Caitriona claps a hand over her mouth, looking down at the layer of dead leaves beneath her feet. She's trying to cover her laughter, yes, but there's something else too, a fine thread of unease. To her surprise, she feels a bit defensive of Cullen — and maybe a trifle jealous?

When the laughter begins to fade, Varric's voice rings out. "I'd expect Bull to consider that a win, but not you, Sera. I wouldn't have thought it would be to your taste."

Sera makes a face. "Eugh, no," she confirms, "Fancypants can keep his jumbly-giblets away from me. But now anytime I want to have a go at someone, there's no worries about getting nicked, yeah? If he catches me at it, all I have to do is remind him how I seen his maypole—"

Cullen covers his eyes with one hand and rubs them tiredly. 

"His wedding tackle—" she teases, enjoying the group's stifled amusement as much as Cullen's strong reaction.

His blush now extending from ears to neck, Cullen looks to the sky as though he hopes the divine hand of the Maker will come down from above and save him. 

"His twig and berries—"

At this last, Cullen stands abruptly and whirls around, disappearing into the darkness with a few swift strides. Several people call after him with encouragement and apologies, but he doesn't turn back.

Sera's grin now threatens to split her face. "See? I just mention that, he'll run away, and I can get back to whatever fun I'm having. So that's what I won." She toasts her cup in Iron Bull's direction and he returns it from across the fire.

Part of Caitriona wants to follow him, but her own enjoyment of Sera's command of euphemisms cannot have gone unnoticed, and her presence may not be appreciated. Although she suspects he'd rather be alone right now, she realizes that she's feeling a surge of protective affection for Cullen and his shy innocence, and that she wishes she could comfort him somehow. It's a feeling she wasn't expecting, and one that she stows away to be examined later — when there _aren't_ half a dozen other people sitting around the fire with her.

"All right, poor Cullen has taken enough abuse," Caitriona admonishes everyone, trying to hide the last of her faint smile. Hopefully Cullen will feel able to return soon now that things have died down. "And Sera... let's just try not to get caught 'having fun' in the future, shall we?"


	5. Vivienne

"...and now Chevalier Renault is known among the Orlesian court as 'the bard'."

The group clustered around the fire erupts with laughter. Caitriona inwardly thanks the Maker for Varric. The endless marches to points unknown are always much more bearable when he's along to spin them tales that lighten the mood. Several places further around the circle, she notes Vivienne poised upon a large rock, expression blank and confused.

"Varric, darling, I happen to know Chevalier Renault and I can say with absolute certainty that story isn't true," she says in a haughty voice. "Furthermore, no one of consequence in the court has ever called him 'the bard', nor _will_ they ever call him such." 

Everyone else glances at their companions around the fire, unsure what to say, until Iron Bull decides to give it a try. "Er, but ma'am," he offers, "the part about the elven mage's staff—"

"And that's another thing," Vivienne interjects, clearly winding up to a full-blown lecture directed at naughty children caught spreading nasty rumors. "It's simply ludicrous to insinuate that Chevalier Renault would have had any sort of encounter with that elf at the ball. I was there, and he was wearing black and silver, the colors one wears when they are available for dancing _only_, which would have been clear to anyone possessing the courtly manners of a ten year old. And the implication that he was somehow party to the incident where a mage set fire to the curtains in the Imperial Palace? Utter nonsense."

As she speaks, it's clear that nobody else is planning to try to help Vivienne understand that it's a joke. There are, however, more and more smirks appearing around the fire as she goes on. Varric shrugs minutely at Caitriona, leans in, and mutters, "It's always funnier when you have to explain it."

Caitriona composes herself until she wears a straight face and aims for a tone of appeasement. "Vivienne, please accept my apologies on behalf of us all. We certainly didn't mean anything by it."

Vivienne stands, brushing off her skirts, and looks down her nose at them. "Really, Inquisitor. I'm disappointed in everyone here, but especially you. A good man's reputation is at stake, and here you sit encouraging this rubbish. If you're to be a leader on par with the Empress herself, you must endeavor to become more practiced at discretion."

She stalks away toward her tent, graceful as always, head held high. As soon as the flap closes, those remaining muffle their laughter behind their hands and trade amused comments under their breath. When a shaft of light falls onto them from inside Vivienne's tent, a hush falls over the group once more, and her voice carries clearly to everyone.

"Besides, my dears," she says slyly, "anyone who knows anyone is well aware that Chevalier Renault is known as 'the dragonslayer', and has been ever since the scandal involving the candlestick and the Nevarran prince."


	6. Solas

By the position of the moon in the sky, Caitriona knows it's almost time for Cassandra to come relieve her of watch duty. She peers into the darkness, barely able to make out the shapes of the tents surrounding the fire. But when she finally sees a figure coming her way, it is not who she expected.

"Greetings, Inquisitor," Solas says lightly, settling down on a round rock next to her.

"Solas, there you are, welcome back. I hope the Dreaming was pleasant?" He bows his head slightly, confirming it was, and she goes on. "Do you think you might be ready to depart for Skyhold tomorrow? We've been waiting for your return before starting out."

"I didn't mean to delay everyone," he says. "The Temple of Dirthamen makes for fascinating exploration — full of secrets that have waited thousands of years to be rediscovered. Evidently I spent more time seeking them out than I realized."

"I can see how you would be tempted to stay in the Fade for that," she replies. They both go quiet, and Caitriona does another search around the perimeter of the camp — still no Cassandra. Left alone with her thoughts, curiosity eventually gets the better of her. "What was it like?"

Solas spreads his hands in a helpless gesture. "Seeing the lost art, the artifacts, even hearing lost music... it's difficult to describe."

"I expect so. Imagine what else has been lost," she says thoughtfully. "What knowledge might the ancient elves have had that could help us now? What might they have been able to tell us about Corypheus and his orb? It's a shame we can't bring them back to ask them."

Solas sits very still, staring intently; she resists the urge to squirm under his gaze. The scrutiny is uncomfortable, and she's about to say something else just to fill the silence when—

"Even if we could, would you really wish to put them through it?" He is angry and sad at the same time. "You would have them wake here, centuries past their time, in a world where most of their people have become either paupers or slaves? Their friends and family gone, their temples now ruins, with even their magic changed since they last walked the earth?" 

Though she doesn't fully understand his reaction, her careless remark has obviously upset him, and she regrets having said it. "No, of course not. Solas, I apologize."

"Do not trouble yourself about it." All of a sudden, he looks exhausted. "The point about knowledge lost is well-taken. Undoubtedly, were you to encounter any ancient elves, they would have a much deeper understanding of the orb, and of magic in general, than the Inquisition does." He looks into the distance, then rises from his place, leaning on his staff for support. "Cassandra is coming. If you'll excuse me, I will take my leave now."

He bids her good night and begins moving around the fire towards the tents. Something about his robes and the watery moonlight gives his movement a peculiar quality, almost like he's a spirit himself, gliding over the ground. 

"Perhaps the ancients are still out there, Inquisitor," he calls back over his shoulder. "Perhaps someday you'll even be fortunate enough to meet one."


	7. Iron Bull

"You know, Inquisitor, it really is a shame." 

Uh oh. Iron Bull is stretched out next to the fire, hands behind his head and grinning. Caitriona looks around at her other companions and clearly, everyone knows where this is going: Varric is already smirking, and Vivienne wears an unamused expression that reminds Caitriona of a wet cat. 

Even if she wanted to try avoiding the subject, he's just going to keep poking her until she responds. Besides, when he gets like this, it's usually worth playing along. "What's a shame, Bull?" she asks airily.

"That you're off the market," he promptly returns. 

_Off the market?_ She isn't entirely sure what he's talking about, but then again, does that matter? "Am I, now? And that's a shame because...?"

Iron Bull's grin gets wider. "I was hoping you'd want to ride the Bull at least once or twice before this was all over." He punctuates the statement with a slight upward thrust of his hips. 

Although Caitriona chuckles along with Bull and Varric, she can still feel a deep blush spreading out from her cheeks. Not embarrassed, exactly, but she can't help but get a little bashful when Bull talks like this, especially when the talk is about her. "Ah," she says knowingly, "you had big plans then, did you? I'm sorry to have disappointed you."

If she was hoping to close the discussion, or deflect attention from her reaction, that comment was the exact wrong way to do it. Bull immediately latches onto the phrase _big plans_, and launches into a colorfully detailed and indescribably filthy description of what, precisely, his big plans were. When he begins adding gestures to help illustrate his points, Varric can no longer hold it in and cracks up laughing. Hearing Varric laugh sets her off, too, and soon the two of them are near tears. 

Several minutes in, Iron Bull has his hands above his hips, fingers stretched out in a round shape as though he were holding a large bowl. Or... something else. "...and then, once I had you right here where I wanted you, I'd grab—"

"Hold on while I get my quill," Varric calls out, still laughing, "I'm stealing some of this for my next book, I bet Cassandra will love it."

Everyone laughs again, except Vivienne, who appears to be gathering her patience. "Iron Bull," she chides, "I am very much in favor of the Inquisitor enjoying herself, but really, darling — if you want her to know what she's missing, that's a conversation best had in private." 

"Yes, ma'am," Bull tells her, holding back more of his graphic depiction but no less amused for it. 

She stands up and bids them good night. Just as she begins to step towards her tent, she turns to Caitriona with a faint smile and whispers, "Best of luck, my dear." Varric begs off too, giving the excuse that he wants to do some writing while ideas are fresh in his mind. Bull sends them both off cheerfully, then picks up his overly large cup for a long drink of ale.

Now that the entertainment has died down and she's left alone with Iron Bull, she thinks back to how the whole thing started. "What did you mean by 'off the market'?"

"You and Cullen," he answers matter-of-factly, draining the last of his drink. While he goes to refill it, she waits, a bit shocked. It's true she _has_ been thinking of Cullen an awful lot lately, and playing chess or going for a walk with him is usually the high point of her day. But it's not like she's been overt about it, and she hasn't told anyone, so... 

When he returns, she points out what, until a minute ago, she'd thought was rather obvious. "There is no 'me and Cullen', Bull."

"Nah." He waves a hand at her dismissively. "You're totally gone on him, everyone knows it. And you're definitely a one-man sort of woman, so I'm not getting in the middle of that."

"Right," is all she can think to say. If pressed, she would have to admit there's a good deal of truth to what Bull is saying — but she certainly didn't know her affection for Cullen had become that well-known around Skyhold. Her mind is completely preoccupied now with wondering _who_, exactly, knows it. Wondering about one person, specifically.

"Don't worry, Inquisitor." Bull's voice interrupts the thoughts that have suddenly run mad and startles her. 

"What?"

"I said, don't worry. He feels the same way about you. Relax and enjoy it." Slightly dazed, she has no response other than to nod in vague agreement. Iron Bull leans back against a rock and looks up at the sky. "Matter of fact, you deserve a treat. When we get back, I'll make sure to pass on everything I just said to Cullen. Then he can show you a _really_ good time."


	8. Varric

A mossy lump of granite rears up out of nowhere just as Caitriona is about to reach Varric's campfire, and she pitches forward violently. The only thing that saves her from getting a face full of grass and stones is the person who has just left the fire and who is, at the moment, serving as her personal cushion now that they've crashed together to the ground: Hawke. 

Several yards away, the group of soldiers escorting the caravan has witnessed the collision, and they break out in applause. Hawke is quite wobbly as they untangle battered limbs and stand up. Closer examination reveals cheeks flushed pink and the distinct scent of ale floating around her. 

"My apologies, Hawke."

Hawke turns to her, expression unreadable, almost looking past Caitriona rather than at her. The eye contact lasts only as long as it takes for Hawke to mumble an apology, and then is broken as Hawke walks off in another direction. 

Caitriona watches her go, frowning and wondering whether she ought to follow and make sure Hawke is all right. Then again, it's Hawke — undoubtedly, she can take care of herself — and, of course, Varric is the one she's come here to see. She steps more carefully over to where he and Hawke have been using an especially wide tree stump as a table.

"Varric," she greets him amiably, and he gestures with his half-full ale in return. Noting the barrel parked next to the makeshift table, she counts the empty mugs that sit on the stump in front of him. The number she comes up with is fairly alarming even supposing that half of them were Hawke's. 

A small purse full of coppers lands on the ground near his feet. "The coin I owe you from the last game of Wicked Grace," she offers. Varric picks them up with a nod but stays uncharacteristically quiet. She tries again: "I ran into Hawke just now."

"I saw. Nice to see your graceful moves on the battlefield translate to the rest of your life." His hint of a smile is gone almost as soon as it appears. Disconcerted, she prompts him one more time. "I know you were eager to get back to Skyhold, so you'll be pleased to know that the scouts say we should be getting back a couple of days early."

Varric takes a healthy gulp of his drink. "Cassandra will be glad to get her next chapter," he says, falling silent once more. This is the most reserved she has ever seen him, and between that and the collection of finished drinks in front of him, she starts feeling pangs of real concern. 

"Did something happen between you and Hawke tonight?" she asks carefully.

"Not really." He shakes himself a bit as though throwing off the last clinging tendrils of sleep. "It was just... I don't know, she's different now. Not many people know or care what she was like before she was 'the Champion', but I do. She had to handle more shit than you could imagine." Varric stops himself, then backs up and says, "Well, maybe _you_ could. But anyway, all the bullshit that comes with saving the world changed her. Not all for the better."

Caitriona's stomach clenches but she keeps her voice steady. "What changed?"

He takes a moment to think before answering. "I know she cares about the Breach, about the Wardens, about me — hell, Hawke cares about everything, that's part of what got her where she is. But in the beginning, she laughed and cried and celebrated and grieved with the people she was helping." 

Varric stares at his mug while slowly rotating it with one hand. "There was this kid in Kirkwall. Wilmod. He went missing with a bunch of other templar recruits, and by the time Hawke found him, he was already possessed. After he died, she beat herself up for weeks for not getting to him in time. She even tracked down the kid's mother to give the family her sympathies personally."

His voice changes, now tinged with sadness and cynicism. "When Meredith finally lost her mind, the sodding First Enchanter turned himself into a demon right in front of her and she didn't even blink before she cut him down. She still does the celebrating and grieving, but now it's like some kind of walking, talking Hawke statue instead of actual human Hawke. She makes the right gestures and says the right words, but she's only half there." 

Varric sighs. "Sometimes I miss the old Hawke, and it seems like no one else bothered to remember her. I don't think _she_ even remembers who she used to be anymore."

Their eyes lock over Varric's mug for a moment, and she's sure both of them have the same thing running through their minds: picturing what the future has in store for her now that the burden of defeating Corypheus has landed on her shoulders. Imagining her utterly detached from everything and everyone. And for Caitriona, at least, a wave of discomfort because this hits a little too close to home — part of her knows that she has already begun insulating and isolating herself the same way Hawke did.

A raucous shout from the soldiers breaks the spell, and Varric downs the last of his ale. "Andraste's ass. All this brooding could give Fenris a run for his money." He plunks his mug down on the crowded tree stump and stands up, eyes on the next campfire over. "There's a bunch of drunken soldiers flush with coin over there just asking to get fleeced. Luckily, I have my Wicked Grace deck with me — let's go clean them out."


	9. Cassandra

"What have we here?"

Cassandra immediately clutches a sheaf of papers to her chest. Whatever they are, she's been bent over them all night, alternating between scribbling intently and frowning at them like they have personally offended her. Caitriona's smile only widens at Cassandra's guilty expression. 

"It is nothing."

She gives Cassandra a pointed look and bumps the Seeker's shoulder with her own. Cassandra presses her lips together stubbornly, but under Caitriona's fixed gaze she eventually gives in with a sigh.

"All right. I have been trying my hand at... writing."

"Writing?" Caitriona asks, amused. "You mean writing novels?"

"Yes. After reading _Swords & Shields_, an idea came to me. Writing is not easy for me, as you have surely noticed. But I thought, if Varric can do it, then perhaps so can I." 

"Would you tell me what the story is about?" Over Cassandra's shoulder, Caitriona can see Varric hunched over his own bundle of parchment. Although his quill is poised to paper, it doesn't move, and she can tell that the dwarf is listening keenly to their conversation.

"It's about..." Cassandra glances behind her, where evidently Varric gives her a convincing impression of being unable to hear anything, because she feels safe to go on: "There is a lovely young templar, who finds herself unexpectedly thrust into the role of Divine after a civil war within the Chantry," Cassandra tells her. Caitriona holds back a smile at the similarity — they have just recently begun to hear rumors that Cassandra herself may very well be appointed the next Divine.

"Trapped in the unfamiliar world of politics and intrigue, she feels she has no one she can trust, no one she can confide in safely. She is truly alone." Cassandra's eyes suddenly go wide with excitement. "But then, one moonless night, she is attacked in her quarters by a handsome Crow assassin. With her combat training she is able to thwart his attempt on her life, and he swears himself to her service in exchange for her mercy. He becomes first her bodyguard, then in time..." Cassandra pauses, blushing again, "...he becomes more."

"That sounds delightful, Cassandra. I hope you'll allow me to read it when you're finished."

"I suppose... that would be all right," Cassandra replies slowly. She continues in a low voice, "All I ask is that you keep this to yourself. If Varric ever found out that he inspired me to write, I would never hear the end of it."

With a quick glance, Caitriona looks back at Varric. He is still pretending to be focused on his manuscript, but she can see he is both surprised and moved. "All right, I will. But if Varric truly has inspired you, then perhaps you would consider telling him so? His reaction may surprise you."

"I highly doubt that." Cassandra glowers at the papers in her lap. "In any case, I would not wish to do so before the story is finished. If you don't mind, I'd like to get back to it...?"

Caitriona nods and leaves Cassandra to her work. While crossing to the other side of the camp, she sees Varric's quill resume its scratching across paper, one corner of his mouth turned up in a smile.


	10. Cullen

The coin is worn smooth, cool under her thumb as Caitriona rubs it with a circular motion. She watches Solas carefully for any minute, revealing signs, but his face is a mask of neutrality. The other players look back and forth between them, waiting. Minutes pass, but still, she can glean nothing from Solas — it's as though he has the power to turn himself to stone at will.

Finally, she makes her choice and tosses her coin in the dirt, to join several dozen others in the center of a circle formed by herself and Solas, along with Varric, Dorian, and Sera. "All right, there's my coin," she offers, "let's see what you have, then." She's only _mostly_ confident that she has the winning cards, but the last three times she dropped out of the betting against Solas, she had actually had the best hand. With only a single coin left, it's now or never.

Cracking a tiny smile, he spreads his cards out on the ground in front of him, and everyone else in the circle bursts out laughing. Not only does he have a better hand than hers, he has the best cards possible for _any_ hand. Caitriona grumbles quietly as the elf scoops up the pile of shining metal in front of him.

"I've told you before, Inquisitor." Blackwall stops hitting Iron Bull with a stick long enough to call out from halfway across the camp. "It's a mistake to wager on cards with Solas, especially Diamondback." Iron Bull's remark back to Blackwall is spoken under his breath and Caitriona is only able to make out the word _bits_. Whatever was said, Blackwall makes a face that is equal parts annoyance and amusement, then redoubles his stick-based offensive.

Dorian, meanwhile, is still snickering. Admittedly, the laughter of her companions is infectious, but still — smiling, she pushes his shoulder hard enough to nearly tip him over. The shove only seems to amuse him more.

"Since you've given over the last of your coin," he drawls, "perhaps you'd be so kind as to bring us more wine?"

Caitriona grins as she throws him a slightly obscene gesture, which predictably only delights everyone further, and gets up. The pile of supply crates and chests is nestled in a snowbank at the back of camp, clearly visible in the bright moonlight even at this distance. It only takes a few steps away from the massive campfire before the air is cool enough that the sensation of heat radiating off her skin is palpable. Looking back, she sees that the group has already shuffled the cards and started a new hand.

Poking through the crates, she quickly realizes that it will be harder than she thought to determine which bottles are the ones she wants. The longer she stands there bending over crates and squinting at labels, the colder she gets, and she has only managed to find a single bottle before she starts shivering. She is busy silently cursing herself for not bringing a torch when a cloak drops down over her shoulders.

Caitriona stands up straight, a bit surprised — she was concentrating hard enough that she didn't hear Cullen's footsteps. At the same time, she pulls his cloak tight around her, still warm with heat from his body. When she shrugs deeper into it, she notes that it smells like him, too. The urge to turn her head and bury her nose in the thick fur is almost overpowering.

"Thank you, Cullen."

"My pleasure," he answers. He doesn't say anything else, just rubs the back of his neck with one hand and keeps his gaze fixed on the ground. After a little while it becomes obvious that waiting him out isn't going to work, so she ducks her head to get closer to his line of sight. 

"Did you want something?"

Finally, he is able to make eye contact. "Ah, yes. Right. I wanted to, er..." He trails off, and it is here he starts to blush. "I thought perhaps I could... we could talk a while."

Caitriona moves a half-step closer to him, and she's not sure he's even aware of it when he does the same. He keeps looking away almost involuntarily, and she can't help but smile at how bashful he still is around her even after weeks of chess games and afternoons spent exploring the castle. 

"Of course we can. Is there anything in particular on your mind?"

Cullen looks sideways again, seemingly screwing up the courage to say whatever it is. "Well," he starts hesitantly, "I wanted to— er, it's been wonderful spending time with you lately, and... uh, that is, I've been thinking a lot about whether we might— or rather, whether you might like to..."

He stops for a moment, looking helpless. But instead of trying his speech again, he leans in and kisses her. Though she's caught off-balance at first, it only takes a second for her to recover and kiss him back. His lips are soft on hers, so gentle, like he might break her if he's not careful. Her head is spinning and her stomach twists with heat — she's been dreaming about this for what feels like forever.

She twines her arms around his neck, his hands clasp at the small of her back, and they slip close together. But ever the gentleman, rather than intensifying, his kisses remain sweet and slow. Almost before her mind has even caught up to what's happening, he's left one last delicate peck on her lips, then another, and pulled back to look at her.

Because he's Cullen, he's still blushing, perhaps even moreso now. He smiles shyly, and has just opened his mouth to speak when he is interrupted by a cacophony of hooting and hollering coming from back at the campfire. From the sound of it, everyone has joined in: she can hear several people shouting and cheering, and even the normally stoic Blackwall is laughing as Iron Bull bellows, "About time!"

Cullen lets go of her and puts a hand to his face in chagrin, embarrassed by her companions, but thankfully not enough that he isn't still smiling. Caitriona just laughs, then turns towards the group and takes a sweeping bow. That gets another rousing cheer, and then they return to what they had been doing, with the exception of Sera — based on the hand gestures she's making, she appears to be too busy describing something very risqué to get back to the card game.

"Well. That was unexpected," Cullen says gamely. "I didn't realize everyone was watching. I apologize for my lapse in discretion."

At the moment, Caitriona could not care less who was watching — Cullen could kiss her in front of all Skyhold and Corypheus himself, and that would be just fine with her. "It's all right," she reassures him. Planting a quick kiss on his cheek, she takes his hand and leads him back toward the roaring fire, the wine forgotten. "Come on, it's cold out here. Let's go get warm."


End file.
